The Next Quest of the Dragon-Wolf
by The Exiled Legion
Summary: He had lived too long. His body degrading, his people safe and the Tamriel Empire ready for its next ruler. It was time for him to leave. He decided to sail into the discovered border of storms around the known world. He sailed into the heart of this storm, only for a strange event to transport him to this strange land. He was happy, a new adventure was awaiting him.
1. Chapter 1

**Right, this is a complete reboot of The Next Quest. Currently, I have this is a two-shot. So tell me if it is any good and I'll continue with this version.**

**-X-**

**Torheim Bjornson**

Torheim Bjornson's grey eyes shot open, the burning of his lungs and stomach forced the man to chuck his body to the side.

Vomiting wasn't a good experience as it burned your throat, even if it was mostly water. He certainly felt it.

His stomach heaving, the Dragonborn focused on getting his breath back. It wasn't pleasant yet he was determined to retain it, but suddenly he stopped.

The faint crashing sounds of waterfalls, the taste of nature and the familiar air of coldness.

"I'm alive." The Conqueror of Tamriel breathed a sigh of relief, a smile on his lips. "Praise the Gods." He then pushed himself to his feet, circling on the spot.

Torheim saw he was inside a clearing surrounded by a forest filled with fallen autumn leaves, winter grass mixed with cold, hard dirt. Looking further, Torheim could see rivers and streams nearby.

"I was right!" His roar echoed into the forest and he raised his arms in happiness.

His body shook in giddiness, after nearly four decades of sitting behind a desk, signing thousands of papers and having council meetings to make sure Tamriel was running smoothly. Torheim could finally have some freedom, like his old days as an adventurer.

A small breeze passed over him before looking down. "Oh, I'm naked. That might be a problem in meeting people. First clothes." His stomach grumbled in response. "Food first then clothes."

He shuffled before he felt his foot hit something metallic. Looking down, he saw three familiar weapons and smiled.

"At least my best weapons survived the journey."

Two of the weapons, he himself made, from the bones of the dragons he had slain.

A Dragonbone sword, looking similar to the Silver Hand's weapons, except the blade has several 'teeth' shall we say, that make the blade unsymmetrical in the edges. The crossguard, handle, circle pommel and fuller of the blade he made with his knowledge of Daedric blacksmithing, making the areas black with a slight red tint to them. The sword was modeled after his taller than average height, so it was closer to six foot than the normal three and a half feet to four and a half feet in length.

The second was a dragonbone dagger, which just looks like the sword except a smaller version and a more round shape to a point.

The last one was more of an heirloom than the others. A modified Wuuthrad, the Battleaxe of Ysgramor, remade in the Skyforge by Torheim's old friend, Eorlund Grey-Mane. He and Eorlund had melted the axe down alongside the blade Dragonbane and a Dragonbone battleaxe, creating a more powerful axe. In terms of shape, it had a single blade in the style of the Dragonbone but with a black and bone yellow wavy coloured metal and a bright steel colour on the edge of the blade; it still had the elf engraving where the axe met the handle but it also had a screaming dragon on the other side. There was also a long sharp spike with a smaller on underneath it, opposite the axe head. The handle was of the dragonbone battleaxe but had the coverings of Dragonbane all the way up the handle, with the pommel being a small, sharp grey spike.

The entire length of the axe was a large six foot.

Torheim smiled, before picking them up, having the sword and dagger in one hand, the battleaxe in the other. His strength letting him lift the weapons with ease.

The Dragonborn narrowed his eyes before closing them. He focused his senses, his hearing, the taste in the air, the noises. He breathed in, hoping to find scents that resemble either human or animal.

_Fur, growls, two of them, north, half a mile._

He smiled. "Bears, that's good. Food and clothing in one package." Turning towards the direction, the Dragonborn sprinted at full speed towards his destination.

His thoughts went back to his family. Children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great-grandchildren, his wife Lydia, and his friend since birth, Erik the Slayer. Both passed on from natural causes, but went peacefully with a smile, the memories of the three of them adventuring and fighting against bandits, wolves, werewolves and daedras could last him a lifetime.

His thoughts engulfed him and before he knew it, Torheim had reached his destination.

The Dragonborn hid behind a small incline and saw them.

Two big, brown bears. The two waiting near a large stream, hoping to catch some fish to eat.

Torheim hummed in thought as he looked around, there was a lot of cover to use, stone and thick trees.

Even if he just caught one, it would be enough for him to keep warm and food to fill his stomach.

One faced his direction, but the Dragonborn snuck to the far side of a thick tree, using the other bear facing away from him as cover, but still giving him an idea where the second bear was.

He stepped out and tensed, his dagger in hand, sword in the other. The Dragon Wuuthrad lying behind the tree.

Taking a moment to think, he found a quick way of killing both.

He raised his dagger, flipping it and gripped the blade with his fingers.

And threw it over the first, towards the second.

A loud _thunk_ was unheard as a loud roar of pain was released from the second bear.

The first bear looked up at the other, a confused sound escaping it.

He charged.

Five feet.

The beast froze, instinct telling of a danger.

Four feet.

The Dragonborn continued to charge, leaves and sticks crunching.

Three Feet.

The bear starts to turn around.

Two feet.

Torheim raised his sword, preparing to jump.

One foot.

Using some of the gift, he jumped as high as he could, a great fifteen feet.

The bear turned around roaring.

Only for it to be cut short as the sword went straight through its skull and out of its throat, killing the beast instantly. It's corpse fell to the side, taking the sword with it.

Looking over to the other beast, Torheim saw it lying on the ground, not moving. The dagger stuck deep in its eye.

"Still got it." Torheim said, proud. However that opened up a thought.

He was old, in his one hundred and fortieth years of age at that. Yet, he could sprint for long periods of time and charge without feeling tired. Even with his gift, he should have felt the pains of old age and yet he felt none.

Pausing at that carriage of thought. Torheim stepped up to the stream and looked at the surface.

"That's impossible." He breathed in disbelief.

He _was_ young again, looking nearly twenty. The flecks of grey in his hair had disappeared, leaving his long hair and full beard completely dark brown once again.

Standing to his full height, a towering, almost unnatural, seven foot five inches. His eyes went down at his body and really looked, unlike before where he just took a glance.

His body even looked younger, fingers now calloused again, though the faint scars he received over a long life of adventure were still there, but the wrinkles that showed on his body were gone. His muscles, which had gone thin from not being used properly, were now back to their full massive size.

"Not a bad side effect of the journey." Torheim said with an easygoing smile. He looked around the forest again. "Now, I've got to find out where I am. The air certainly has that feel of my homeland to it." He took another breath, the familiar feel of his home province always out a smile on the Dragonborn's face.

Looking down, Torheim stared at the dead bears with his stomach growling, wanting food. He sighed. Walking over to collect his dagger and started to skin the bears.

**-X-**

Torheim dug into the stick skewered bear meat he had cooked, a fire in front of him with more pieces of bear skewed on a stick over the fire.

Coverings of the bear over his legs and feet with wrappings he took from the handle of the Dragonbone Wuuthrad.

Torheim finished eating and looked around. "Now to find the nearest city."

_Screaming, metal singing, metal flying, blood, thirty men, twenty women._

The Dragonborn frowned. "_Fighting?"_ He closed his eyes and focused once again.

_Women screaming, men roaring with bloodthirsty tones, the swishing of blades, flesh being torn apart, blood in the air, thirty men having disgusting scents, ten women having cleaner scents, three miles northeast._

Torheim shot to his feet. "A raid!" A deep feral growl escape his chest.

Quickly gathering his weapons, he sprinted northeast, the food and the firepit forgotten.

Charging through the forest, Torheim was mentally holding back his gift from fully manifesting, only allowing some of it, making him reach the destination faster.

It didn't feel like three miles to Torheim, but he was used to it, having trained with his gift for years. When he arrived, the Conqueror hid behind a thick collection of shrubbery, carefully putting his weapons down and pushing aside a part of the leaves. A stony beach was in front of him, ten barely held together row boats beached. He saw a large gathering of people near the boats, so he focused his eyes on them.

What he saw almost made him release his gift voluntary.

Thirty men covered in shoddy made furs and leather armour, dragging away rope bound women of various ages, the oldest looking in her mid-twenties, while the youngest was fourteen.

The latter of which made Torheim's control almost non-existent.

A few men and women dead on the stony beach, their blood staining the shore their armour and weapons were fair higher in quality but even the best can be beat when outnumbered.

"Well, lads! Seems we got some good catch today! Weapons and women, more sons and daughters for the tribe!" A Man, the leader the Dragonborn presumed, had yelled to his men, who cheered. His voice hoarse, as if he had trouble speaking. The captive women were all know struggling against their bonds as they, as Torheim, realised what that meant as 'more sons and daughters for the tribe'.

The Dragonborn let go of his control.

He dropped his weapons and stripped naked, and breathed in, reaching deep within his soul and shouted.

**STRUN! BAH! QO!**

After shouting, he immediately called upon the animal spirit within him.

His bones broke, his flesh and ligaments tore before mending just as quickly. His skull was the worst pain about the transformation for Torheim.

Torheim was a werewolf, more importantly he was Blessed by Hircine even more than a normal werewolf.

The grey clouds above, calm and slow, unnaturally turned violent. A massive downpour suddenly fell onto the stony shore, catching the raiders, even the captive women off-guard.

"Where the fuck did this storm come from?!" The Leader roared out. "We can't row in this! Get those boats further back!"

Just what Torheim wanted.

Lightning and thunder lit up the sky, striking the ground at regular intervals. Several of the raiders started praying, Torheim, now in his werewolf form, could hear the raiders speak.

"Is this the Old Gods?!"

"Are the Old Gods angry?!"

"What the fuck is happening?!"

The mention of these Old Gods didn't register within the mind of Torheim, now that he was in his beast form. The only thing on the Dragonborn's mind was the death of the raiders, not their squeals.

It was when the first lightning bolt struck a raider, he charged.

"What is that?!"

"A demon! A demon!"

The Werewolf leaped and his fangs dug into the neck and face of a raider. Pulling back, flesh and bone were ripped away without effort. The raiders cried out in horror, most stumbling back, some fell to their arses, but all felt death had come for them.

**-X-**

**Alarra Mormont**

She was not having a good week, her husband had died five days ago, her son Jeor who was only twenty had become Lord of Bear Island. His grief was obvious and tried to hide it, trying to be the strong leader that Bear Island needed.

And she was pregnant, only half a moon she was told. Her husband was happy but a quick sickness took him away. His body buried in the deep caverns of Mormont Keep.

She was outside, with a collection of five boys and girls trainees with seven guards to protect her.

When they were caught off-guard by an ambush of thirty Wildlings. Now all of her male guards dead, with herself, two girl trainees and three female guards being kidnapped by Wildlings to be raped and to populate their clan.

She struggled of course, as did her fellow women, but they were stronger and so were their ropes. However, this earned them strikes across the face or stomachs leaving bruises.

Alarra felt that she would have to jump into the cold sea when she could, better dead than a baby making worker. The only thing stopping her was the baby currently growing within her womb. She would kill it before it would take its first breath, Alarra couldn't do it and so banished the thoughts of suicide away from her head.

**STRUN! BAH! QO!**

Everyone froze. The raiders looking around, wondering where the...she didn't know how to describe it, roar maybe? A sense of foreboding took a hold over the raiders she could see, while Alarra was too busy trying to find a way to escape with her fellow Bear Islanders.

The rain that appeared shocked everyone, even the guards and Alarra were surprised, Bear Island normally got snow and grey skies, a savage downpour was rare as a bard coming to the island.

The Raider Leader ordered his men to bring the boats in the rain to heavy and cold to row.

Lightning and thunder decided to grace the island. Bolts struck trees, shore even a few Wildlings without discrimination, thunder echoed like roars of giants and dragons.

"What is that?!"

"Demon!"

"Ahh-urk!"

Alarra gaped in awe and horror. How couldn't she?

It was a wolf and yet the body of a man.

Taller than anything she has seen. Fur was dark as night, amber eyes as if they held fire, claws the size of daggers with pure white fangs and both looking sharper than any blade she has seen, a man's body with a powerful muscular body.

The Wolfman ripped and tore the Wildlings apart, literally.. Guts, bones, blood, heads, arms, legs, torsos, feet. Any and all kinds of body parts were painting the stony northern beach of Bear Island.

She heard all of the young trainees throwing up behind her. Like her, they had froze when the Wolfman charged into the Wildlings.

It was then the lady of Bear Island saw a brave, or stupid, Wildling running at the back of the Wolfman, spear in hand.

"Look out!" Alarra warned before immediately covering her mouth. Why did she try to warn it? It could've turn its attention towards them, she thought.

The Wildling was near the Wolfman and with speed she had never seen, the manbeast swiftly turned around on the spot.

And engulfed the Wildling's head within its maw and simply pulled. Blood sprouted from the man's neck like a waterfall. Its body falling to the ground like a puppet without strings. The Wolfman spat the head out and continued the slaughter.

Even her most veteran guard had started to turn green from the viciousness they were seeing.

Some tried to escape the Wolfman, all were denied before they even got halfway.

The massacre stopped. The storm stopped, letting the calm grey skies to form once again.

It howled. Howled in bloodlust. Howled in victory.

Slowly it turned to the women. The trainees froze, the veterans tensed, experience and survival instinct kicking in.

It walked towards them on two legs, like a human. Alarra shouldn't be surprised, it was half human.

_'Maybe that human half has reason.'_ Alarra thought as it continued to advance towards them.

Deep cracks were heard as its feet touched the beach, crushed stone left in the Wolfman's march.

Lady Mormont gulped, the strength of the Wolfman frightened her. For the sake of the Old Gods, everything about it frightened her!

Looking down, she quickly spotted a sword, blunt and horribly maintained. Alarra swiftly knelt and picked it up, holding to her side.

The move seemed motivated the guards and trainees behind her. They each found some kind of weapon, pieces of armour, stones other poorly maintained blades or spears of the Wildlings.

The Wolfman towered over her, his head turned down to face her. Amber looking into her dark brown, as if staring into her soul.

"Are any of you hurt?" The Wolfman's voice was gruff, it growled out the question as it looked between the Bear Islanders. It shook Alarra's core with every word spoken,

"Y-You can talk?" A trainee stumbled over her words. A young girl of four and ten, whose brother had been murdered by the raiders.

The Wolfman turned to the girl, amusement in its eyes. "Yes girl. I can talk." Alarra then saw it was confused for a moment. "Though I thought my ability to speak was well known."

Now it was their turn to be confused. "What do you mean Wolfman?"

A loud sound escaped the Beastman's mouth, she later realised it was a short laugh. "Ha! That's a new one." He turned to Lady Mormont. "I mean I thought the Empire would already know my beast form and ability to talk."

"Empire? We are not in any Empire that I know of."

The Wolfman cocked its head. "But...aren't we in Skyrim?"

The guards and trainees behind her looked at each other for a moment. One of the guards, Sarra spoke up. "Beastman, we are not in this 'Skyrim' as you call it. But on Bear Island in the North of Westeros."

The Wolfman froze at Sarra's words. "...What?" Alarra noted it looked worried with its eyebrows scrunched together.

Alarra continued for Sarra. "Wolfman, are you not from Westeros? Essos maybe?" She tried to help, after all, the Beastman had saved them from a life of essentially slavery. Finding his home was trivial boon.

It shook its head. "No, I have never heard of these countries. I...I was meant to travel...east…" The Wolfman stumbled through his words, obviously shaken about something.

A trainee spoke up. "East? Did you come from the Sunset Sea?"

Alarra blinked. "Of course." She realised. "You said you went East. Our country had never discovered what is _west_ of Westeros! Maybe you came from there?" Alarra couldn't help but be fascinated, she was standing in front of evidence that there was land in the Sunset Sea.

The Wolfman stopped looking shaken, he turned to face the sea in thought. "I think so, my ship, it was caught in a violent storm that lasted a full month. Maybe it pushed me towards this 'Westeros'."

A month filled storm? Alarra couldn't believe it, the Beastman could be lying about that but she'll give it the benefit of the doubt. It's words and tone did make her believe the Wolfman was from whatever is in the Sunset Sea.

"Well then Wolfman, I need to get back to my home. I would like to ask you to come with us, but I fear you would get attacked when the rest of my people see you."

The Wolfman snorted, his mind now away from his thoughts. "Wouldn't be the first time something like that happened." Whatever Alarra was about to say was stolen from her as she saw the Wolfman change.

Now into something more beast like, but into a man.

He still towered over her, maybe a foot shorter than his Wolfman form, long dark brown hair with a full beard, a burly body. Hair covering his chest, stomach, forearms. She looked down before looking quickly away with a blush.

Yes, hair was everywhere.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted her trainees blushing like maidens, but her guards shamelessly leered at him.

Only for Sarra to speak up. "Wait, you just a boy!"

Alarra looked again, though making sure she only looked at his face, and was indeed taken aback. The man did look like a boy, someone hadn't reached his twentieth name day yet.

The Boy-Man once again grew amused. "That's because my gift allows me to age slower. In fact, I'm around forty-and-one hundred years of age." His voice was still deep, but less feral and didn't shake her core when he spoke, but still held power. She could even spot faint scars across his body.

Her eyes narrowed in confusion. Gift? A quick thought brought her to a conclusion. "You're a shapechanger!"

"Is that what you call it in Westeros?" The Boy-Man, she was confused about what to call him, shrugged. "We just call it Lycanthropy or Sanies Lupinus. The ability to change into a were-creature."

Alarra nodded before looking down again, she cleared her throat before walking away, towards Mormont Hold. "Do you have any clothes to wear? I don't want a naked man walking into my home."

"I don't know my Lady, I sure as shit do!" Her best friend, Dacey Snow commented, the Guards all laughed to themselves, the trainees still blushing at the naked Man.

Lady Mormont smiled at what Dacey did, trying to keep the mood happy, they still need to bury their dead with honours befitting their actions.

**-X-**

**Dacey Snow**

Dacey Snow took a look at the Shapechanger as the group walked through the forest, pulling along the wagon full of dead trainees and guards along the small route. Two trainees inside, mourning over their brothers that had died defending themselves.

He had walked into a thick shrubbery, coming out with three strange looking weapons. A sword and dagger made of bone and some strange red tinted black metal, and a massive battle-axe that reached six foot she guessed. It was preposterous, looking like an extravagant ornate Valyrian steel weapon.

His clothes were nothing more than bear fur, and they only covered his waist down. The Shapechanger put the weapons in the wagon and simply pulled, after the bodies of the dead were inside, with no effort.

She couldn't believe the strength of the Shapechanger, it was like seeing a living breathing myth from the Age of Heroes. The ability to change shape, strange fantastical weapons and incredible strength. Was his homeland, Skyrim, full of people this strong? She wanted to ask but kept from speaking, unsure if talking more about his homeland would upset him.

"Tell me more about this island?" The Shapechanger asked, his voice not even showing a hint of strain from pulling the filled cart.

Lady Alarra, walking next to the Shapechanger, answered. "Well. Bear Island belongs to House Mormont, of which I am the current Lord's mother." She looked down and held her stomach. "And will soon be mother to another." Lady Mormont continued. "Anyway, we don't have much in the way of riches or a fighting force except for trees and bears, we have those in abundance. House Mormont's family words are 'Here We Stand' and we serve as one of House Stark's vassals, who in turn is a vassal to the King of Westeros." Alarra finished, only to quickly ask. "Oh, I forgot to ask your name, please forgive me. My name is Alarra Mormont."

The Shapechanger grunted. "My name is Torheim Bjornson. It is nice to meet a fellow Northern even if it is from another land."

Lady Alarra was confused. "Your 'Skyrim' is in the north of your country?"

"Yes, it's weird how this island reminds me of home. Same air, same wildlife, same accents and same amount of bastard raiders that try to plunder its shores."

Alarra grew a smile. "You're sure you're not from here and just making a mummers tale."

Torheim face Alarra. "Mummers? Do you mean Bards?"

Dacey heard the conversation and couldn't help but ask. "And what about your women? Are they the same?"

This grew a short laugh from Torheim. "Ha! I would think my country's women are much more vicious than you, woman."

A challenging smirk appeared on her face, she walked in front of the man, turning around to walk back. "Really, tell me about them."

If possible, Torheim grew an even bigger smirk than hers. "Alright then. I'll tell you about Aela the Huntress, Uthegurd the Unbroken and Mjoll the Lioness."

And so he did, Torheim telling the group of warrior women about three women that seemed to gain respect from the Shapechanger.

Dacey listened as did the others, about how Aela tracked a wolf through a blizzard with nothing but armour and boiled leather that hardly covered her skin. How Uthegurd was able to slay a Giant, a Giant! with a single swing of her greatsword. How Mjoll slew five dozens of bandits just to save one child.

It felt to fanatasical to her liking, like he _was_ just a mummer telling a story you would tell your children at night. Yet she believed him, it was his words, his body language and his eyes that told her what she was hearing was the truth.

He finished, telling them about how Aela had killed a bear with nothing but shield and her fists.

"...and she kept driving the shield, again, again and again, into the skull until it stopped moving. Not even a twitch from the beast as it laid dead in the snow."

"Who goes there?!"

They stopped, seeing the twenty feet high wooden gates of Mormont Keep, an enormous wooden fence that equally as tall as the gate, which held a circumference of half a mile. On the top of the gate was an engraving of a woman covered in bear, a battleaxe in one hand, and a baby sucking at her breast in the other.

On top of the gate was a guard, arrows in a quiver over his back, a bow in one hand. It was he who called out.

Lady Alarra walked forward, the bowmen paled and quickly ordered behind him. "It's Lady Mormont! Open the gate!"

Creaking slowly open, the wooden gates opened. Allowing the Torheim to drag the wagon into the Keep, Dacey and the rest followed him.

It was kind of amusing for Dacey to see several faces turn gobsmacked at the sight of tall man pulling a wagon without effort, but the mood turned sour as she remembered who was in that wagon.

"Mother!" Dacey turned to see Jeor Mormont, a man of twenty with deep brown hair and brown eyes, a small beard on his jaw, run towards them with worry on his face. Wearing black fur and dark leather to keep himself warm.

Dacey looked over to Torheim, wearing only furred breeches and feet coverings. Was this another of his fantastical powers, the ability to resist the cold?

"Are you okay Mother?" Dacey heard her Lord ask his mother. Despite trying to be a strong leader, any cub will be protective of their mother.

Alarra nodded and informed him about what had happened. "Yes son. I was helping Sarra training the new recruits when we were attacked by Wildlings. The men are dead and the women along with myself would have been taken if it wasn't for the man over there. His name is Torheim Bjornson."

Both of them turned, alongside Dacey, towards Torheim who was helping getting the dead Islanders out of the wagon. He was careful, treating the dead with respect.

The women trainees, held onto their brothers tightly only allowing them to be taken away after saying a final goodbye.

"I'll talk to him after we've buried the dead, they have earned it." Jeor spoke with anger, the reason that good men have died but kept in contained.

The burial was short, families of the deceased were there, no tears were shed only pride at dying with honour and protecting Lady Alarra.

Snow looked to the right to see Torheim off to the right of the keep, away from the gathering. His head bowed with his fist covered by a hand, his eyes closed. It was a prayer Dacey realised, a prayer for the fallen.

It was an hour later that the families all went back to their homes, wanting to mourn privately. Jeor, Lady Alarra and Dacey walked over to Torheim, who was sitting down next to the wall, his strange weapons leaning against the wall. He was even able to find a fur cloak so he had his upper body covered up.

The Shapechanger spotted them approaching and stood up. He bowed slightly at the hip. "I believe you're the Lord of this Island. I apologise." All three blinked, Dacey didn't know why he was apologizing. "If I was there faster, I could've saved those men."

Jeor shook his head. "I know, from what my mother tells me that you have a special...gift. I am just thankful that you got there in time to save the women from being taken away. No need to feel guilty." Torheim nodded slowly. "Though she also tells me you come from beyond the Sunset Sea, from a land called 'Skyrim'.

"Yes, my Lord. My ship was caught in a month long storm and was destroyed. The only thing that survived was my weapons and myself, of course."

Jero stared at the giant of a man. Despite the height difference Jeor held no fear. "If you are indeed telling the truth, what do you plan to do?"

Torheim hummed, thinking for a moment. "Personally, I would try to find a way home. I'm not sure if the storm had passed yet, so I would try to find something to occupy myself with. At least until I feel it is safe enough to get another ship to sail back home again."

Jeor nodded to his answer, Dacey saw a small gleam in his eye and waited for her Lord to speak.

"Mmm, well then Torheim Bjornson. I believe I owe you thanks for helping my mother and warriors of Bear Island. Let me treat you with food, and we can talk."

**-X-**

**What do you guys think of the first chapter of the two-shot? Good or bad? **


	2. Chapter 2

**Jeor Mormont**

Jeor looked on as Torheim blocked the overhead strike with a training sword. An armour made of hide and fur covering his body, except for his head, of which he pulled his hair into a messy ponytail. "Good! You didn't throw all of your weight into the strike. Your footwork needs a little more work, but we can work on that."

The trainee boy of three and ten nodded and swung two more times in quick succession, this time from the right and left. When Torheim parried the last strike away, the boy went for a thrust. Only for The Dragonborn to parry training blade to his right and quickly tap his blunt sword on the boys collar bone. The boy grunted in surprise and stumbled backwards.

"Always expect your opponent to be faster, always expect them to be stronger. Be cautious and only extend your blade if you know you can hit him in the weak spots between armour. The joints, tendons, major veins, these are weak points of the body." His words made the boy nod. Torheim turned to the five other trainees of similar age. "Did you get that?"

They nodded.

It has been two moons since Torheim had appeared on Bear Island. Jeor Mormont couldn't be more thankful enough to have the common sense to let the Shapechanger stay and live in the keep. However, he did say to Bjornson he had to work, Torheim accepted the terms and immediately started to.

Repairs to buildings or walls? Torheim said he had built his own house in Skyrim.

Weapon repair and maintenance? The Giant Shapechanger spoke of having years of blacksmith experience under his belt.

Hunting? Same as above but hunting instead of blacksmithing.

Training more warriors? Bjornson's training spoke of his experience in being a martial teacher.

In those two moons that had passed, life had continued after the ambush. The man, that was being called 'Lord Shapechanger' by the inhabitants of the Island, didn't want to see more dead boys who hadn't grown hairs on their chin, boys who hadn't felt a woman's warmth or had children of their own. So he decided to train the next batch of trainees, he didn't care if they were girls or boys, he'd beat discipline and technique into them so they can survive on the battlefield or in the next raid.

Torheim hummed in approval, seeing this, Jeor started to walk over to him, which Torheim spotted. He turned to the trainees. "Alright, I must cut this lesson short. It seems Lord Mormont wishes to speak to me." The trainees bowed with their heads and dispersed.

Lord Mormont continued over, a few trainees bowed their heads with a low 'Lord Mormont'. Jeor nodded back and continued towards the Shapechanger.

"Lord Jeor." Torheim greeted, putting the training blades back on the rack. "What do you require of me?" He finished and turned to Jeor who took out a small scroll of parchment.

"Word has gotten to Lord Edwlye Stark about you. His letter saying that he wants to meet 'The Shapechanger'." Jeor bluntly told him.

The Dragonborn grunted. "I guess we couldn't keep me a secret forever."

"Well I don't know how we could, when you improve our walls, weapons, blacksmithing and martial techniques." Jeor said with a hint of amusement. "The information most likely came from sailors that go back to the mainland. So some information will need to be clarified for Lord Stark. Besides, I figured that you would've moved on by now, to try and go home."

Torheim paused for a moment. "I started thinking of ways to get back home, however since I came here, hearing about this Westeros. I've decided to stay here for a time. My country will be fine without me, my family and friends have either passed away or knew that my journey might take me a couple of years. I think I'll travel throughout this side of the world before going back." Jeor looked at Torheim's eyes, seeing the lust for adventure within them as Bjornson continued. "I'll write down my knowledge on improving this keep and set off to meet with Lord Stark."

"That will not be needed." Jeor told him, the Shapechanger cocked his head. "Lord Stark is coming here with his son, Rickard. We need more food and wood for our guests. I've assigned you to the hunting party, catch as much as you can."

Torheim grunted and shrugged. "Alright then." The Giant, as he heard some people dub him behind his back, walked over to a bow he made to compensate for his height and strength. The bow, large and a recurve, with a large quiver of massive arrows hanging on a hook near the blacksmith.

Torheim wrapped the quiver harness around him, took his bow, and walked away. Going to gather a party of the Island's best hunters.

Jeor stared at the back of the Shapechanger, his thoughts going back to his home. Indeed, the fortifications have been improved, looking more like walls instead of a palisade. The weapons of the fortress were better than ever, the Shapechanger always helped the blacksmiths and woodcutters on how to make better weapons and bows.

Yes, Jeor was thankful for the Shapechanger to have appeared when he did. And yet he could tell Bjornson was holding something back. Something that put Lord Mormont off, he knew it was rude to think of the man who saved his mother and unborn sibling, but that feeling of unease, he thought. Like staring into the face of a predator that would devour you, your loved ones and possessions in one fell swoop.

Jeor could only hope that his family would never face the predator that was Torheim Bjornson's wrath.

**-X-**

**Edwyle Stark**

"Father, do you believe the rumours about this 'shapechanger'?" He heard his son of ten, Rickard, ask behind him.

"Personally, I think this is just an exaggeration by sailors and merchants, but from what I'm hearing about this 'Shapechanger'. He has improved the Mormont's home immensely in only two and a half moons. I have never heard of a person able to improve a keep that quickly." Edwyle responded.

"Then why are we going?" Rickard asked. "Why not order him to come to Winterfell?"

"Because," Edwyle answered. "It's time for you to see the vassals you will one day rule as Warden of the North. After this, we are going to the others so we can introduce them to you."

"Oh." Rickard realised. "That's why we took so long in getting ready to start on the journey." Rickard looked back onto the large amount of men and wagons of food and equipment.

"I thought it was just because it's dangerous on the way to Bear Island."

Edwyle allowed a small smile. "Well, that's true. Except that we're going on the safest roads through the north. So hopefully we won't have to deal with any bandits or Wildlings."

The journey was a quiet two weeks, the entire march had no 'excitement' according to some of the green boys that had volunteered to help protect them.

They had arrived on Bear Island the day before and he had noticed more than half the men had barely excited expectations in their eyes, even his son had that gleam.

The only thing he cared about, and the part he believed true, was that a man had appeared on the Island, and now more coin was flowing into Bear Island. Not a lot compared to the other vassals but more than normal.

What caught his attention however, was the news that the man was from west of Westeros.

Now that is interesting, he thought. He had exchanged letters with the new Lord Mormont, and that little tidbit was written near the bottom.

Shaking from his memories, Edwyle looked up to see the familiar wooden gates of Mormont Keep. The previous palisade were now thick and sturdy walls, still wooden, the keep itself looked like it had seen improvement, with two more towers than he saw last time.

The gates were open and Edwyle could see the young Lord Jeor standing with the rest of the Keep's servants, guards, hunters, blacksmiths. Everyone filled the courtyard, and yet when Edwyle rode passed the gates, he didn't spot anyone matching the description of the 'Shapechanger'.

He stepped down from his horse and walked over to Jeor who bowed alongside everyone in the Keep.

Edwyle gestured for them to stand and they did so. "Lord Mormont, I thank you for allowing my son and I to stay at your home."

Jeor nodded shortly. "No need my Lord, you are the Warden of the North. I hope Bear Island is to your liking."

Edwyle looked around, staring at the numerous improvement. "Well, from what I'm seeing. The Keep has had quite the upgrade, though I cannot see this so called 'Shapechanger'."

Jeor's brow twitched quickly, and sighed in vexation. "I apologise greatly my Lord, but the shapechanger, whose name is Torheim Bjornson, had gone inside our blacksmith and has not left for a week. Only saying he would leave when it was ready."

"It?" He questioned.

"Yes." Jeor nodded, his face looking like a grimace was fused to it. "He didn't say what 'it' was, all he said was that it will be a gift to you and your son."

Edwyle nodded in acceptance, for now he'll let the Shapechanger continue working, he turned to his men giving them a silent order with his stare.

They dispersed, when their horses were taken to a stable, the men either entered the only tavern, or went to explore the Keep.

He turned back to Jeor and motioned towards his son, Rickard stepped forwards. "Lord Jeor, this is my son, Rickard."

Rickard bowed. "Greetings to you Lord Jeor Mormont."

Jeor reciprocated. "And to you Lord Rickard."

He and Rickard were then escorted to their rooms, a few doors down from each other, two sets of guards on either door.

Edwyle simply sat, thinking about the Shapechanger, to see the measure of him. It was too long before he heard a knock at his door.

"Enter." He spoke.

A servant entered, and quickly bowed. "My Lord, the feast is about to start. Lord Jeor has asked me to escort you."

"Alright then, give me a few minutes to get ready."

The servant exited with another bow.

It was, to the second, five minutes later when Edwyle met with Rickard, before both entered the Main Hall. "Now entering!" A servant announced to the side of the door. "Lord Edwyle Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North! And his son Rickard Stark, Heir to Winterfell!"

The feast was a rowdy affair, as it normally was in the North, the cold weather even in summer and the harshness of the land caused any type of 'southron propriety' to be non-existent.

It was only an hour when a servant quickly walked up, giving a bow to the two men and boy. "My Lords, Bjornson is ready to present the Lord Stark's gifts."

"Took him long enough." Jeor muttered to himself before speaking clearly. "Alright, announce him." The servant quickly curtsied and stepped towards the doors. "I apologise greatly my Lord, I will have words with Torheim about being late."

Edwyle said nothing and continued to stare at the doors.

"Now entering, Torheim Bjornson, Shapechanger!"

The hall turned silent as he cast his eyes upon the being that was Torheim.

"_A Stark?"_ He thought, surprised. This 'Torheim' was unnaturally tall, a large body that seemed more like a tree in width, with the features that made him think he was looking at a Stark. Long dark brown hair, with an equally long beard, grey eyes with wildness within them, yet it seemed...controlled.

An attire of fur, hide and a black half-cloak that went over his left shoulder, connected by a grey iron brooch. An etching of a weird hybrid creature, the body and wings of a dragon, the head of a wolf and the arms and legs of a bear. A longsword that looked like a shortsword on the man, strapped to his hip.

In his hands was a large, length-wise, wrapping.

Torheim stopped in front of the main table, facing him and his son. The Giant of a man then bowed at the waist, his fist over his heart. "Lord Edwyle and Rickard Stark. I sincerely apologise for my rudeness at not meeting with you earlier this morning." Torheim took the wrapping and laid it on the table, and untie them.

Edwyle looked down and was taken aback.

A four foot hand-and-a-half sword.

The blade had a blinding silver colour, the hilt was dark with a howling direwolf as the rain-guard, blue gems within the eyes, quillons shaped into claws facing forwards, a handle of wrapped brown leather and square pommel with enough space for two hands.

The blade itself was longer than a normal longsword and slightly broader as well.

One thing that caught his eye was the runes. Runes dotted up the fuller of the blade and the pommel, a sharp ice blue colour that twinkled in the fire light.

Torheim bowed. "My Lord, I gift this sword to you. It will be stronger than all of the blades in the world, apart from Valyrian Steel."

Edwyle picked the sword up, and inspected it, noting how light it was. Like a feather, he thought. "What do these runes mean?" He questioned, they had seemed familiar.

Torheim smiled, as if happy to explain. "Að vernda? It means 'To Protect' or 'Stand Guard'. You are of the North, a land that has pirates and Wildlings raiding your coasts and stealing your people. This blade, I hope, symbolises your position as a Lord who protects those very same people from the worst of humanity."

As Torheim continued to explain what he had felt the blade stood for, Edwyle couldn't help but be impressed and in awe of this man's metallurgy.

"However, I feel you would need a demonstration of the blade's strength. May I?" Torheim asked while holding out his hand. Edwyle gave the blade to him, Bjornson then unsheathed the sword at his hip, a normal castle-forged steel blade.

The blade of the ordinary sword was laid on the table, the hilt held off it. Torheim held Að vernda up and brought down quickly.

The large snap and scream of metal echoed throughout the hall, the castle-forged blade was cut through completely.

Torheim held up the broken blade to the rest of the hall, who were completely stunned. The Giant of a man then, laid Að vernda back on the table, after he then bowed. "My Lord, I hope this blade aids you through tough and terrible times."

Bjornson then stepped back, Edwyle held the blade up with light touches, only to hiss as he accidentally cut his fingers on the edge. Despite it, Edwyle was satisfied with the weapon, and bowed in thankfulness. "Thank you Torheim Bjornson for this magnificent weapon." Lord Stark then shouted to the people of the hall. "Now, this hall is too quiet, I thought this was the North, not some Southron pansies!"

The singers of the hall all took this as a command and started to sing joyful and fantastic songs, instruments creating a beat that captured the stunned silent people of the hall's attention.

As the men and women grew more rowdy and feasting, Edwyle whispered to Torheim. "I must speak with you privately." Torheim, Edwyle noticed, was amused and looked towards Mormont, who cleared his throat.

Edwyle didn't take notice of it and walked out of the hall, Torheim following.

The two ended up in a hallway, a minute walk away.

Lord Stark turned to the Giant of a Man. "I have to ask you. Are you a Shapechanger?"

"Yes, though in my country we call it Lycanthropy." Torheim answered. He unwrapped the furs and hide on his right arm, leaving it bare.

Edwyle watched in horror and awe as Torheim's arm changed into a massive arm of fur and claws. He heard Torheim's breath turn more animalistic, and primal.

"D-Does this...answer...your question?" Torheim growled like a wolf at him. His eyes now holding flakes of amber and turned slitted.

Edwyle simply nodded his head up and down, his mouth opening and closing. His mind stopped at the implication in front of him.

"What are you?" Lord Stark finally asked.

The arm slowly transformed back into a man's, the Shapechanger breathed in heavily. Sweat pouring down his head and his eyes coloured grey once more.

"I-I am Torheim, Son of Bjorn. Harbinger of the Companions, King of the Werewolves, Slayer of Alduin, Harkon and Miraak, Conqueror and Emperor of Tamriel and Ysmir, the Dragon of the North."

Edwyle had never heard of these titles before. The word Dragon made him stumble backwards. Torheim didn't notice as he stared at the wall to the side.

"In Tamriel, I had discovered the passage past a collection of storm clouds that bordered the known world of my people. My time was up, a life of one hundred-and-forty had come and gone. My empire, my people were safe. So I took the strongest ship I knew, filled it to the brim with provisions and set off on my own. It was a month wading through storms, lightning and tempests struck my ship. As if the Gods themselves were telling me to turn back. However, I defied them and continued. Only...a lightning bolt, this was golden and half a mile in width and struck me. The only thing I remember was a light and waking up on this Island."

Bjornson shook his head. "What the women said, when I saved them. About how I was from west of Westeros. That was a lie, I'm not even sure I am. I remember waking up pretty far inland, there's no way I could've washed that far, unless there was a large wave that passed through Bear Island recently."

Edwyle only stared, his mind whirling through the information he was just being told.

"I'm not a Stark, nor am I a Targaryen. I'm a dragon of the North, of Tamriel." Torheim turned his attention to the Warden. "Please calm yourself Lord Stark. I will not harm anyone in your lands or in Westeros. I just want to start my life anew. Is that so hard to ask?"

His voice was vulnerable and desperate.

The tone broke through Stark's storm of thoughts. Bringing him back down to reality, and stared at Torheim's eyes.

The eyes of smouldering flame, trying to find that spark to become a raging inferno again.

It was then Stark believed in Torheim and his words. He didn't know what it was, but he just felt that Torheim was telling the truth.

He grasped Torheim's shoulder and spoke. "Then Torheim, if you need something to start this new life. Please ask, and if it's reasonable and in my power, I shall give it to you." He let go of the shoulder and stood up with his shoulders back.

Torheim thanked him with a soft smile. "Thank you Lord Stark. To be honest, I only need a good suit of armour and a horse."

Edwyle smiled back. "Well, Torheim Bjornson of Skyrim. I believe I can help you there."

The two men then walked back to the feasting hall, both their spirits lighter.

"By the way, if you aren't Targaryen and not a dragon, what do you mean by 'Dragonborn'?"

"Ah, well. That's a long story. It started when I was falsely imprisoned…"

**-X-**

**Right, what do you guys think about this two-shot? Good, bad, needs work? If so please tell me which parts. Decide if I should continue with this reboot.**

**Also, it's my birthday today. So I feel happy. **

**I got A Clash of Kings, A Storm of Swords (only part 2, which doesn't make me annoyed at all!) and A Feast for Crows today to add to my collection of ASOIAF. To be honest, in-story, I'm a few decades away from Robert's Rebellion. So by the time I get there, I would have got all the books and read them all through because that's when the radical changes start happening for the show. Right now, this is under the TV Show banner, because I'm more familiar with it than the books. **

**Discussion about the Last Dragonborn. This is in-line with what my character would be like. Well, the one I spent the most time on. He was a warrior who dabbled in rogue and magicka skills. So every single warrior skill is maxed out and hit legendary multiple times over. If you can guess what magicka and rogue skills I focused, have a try. **

**I completed the Companions and not the College of Winterhold or Dark Brotherhood. I levelled up completely but I also had Moonlight Tales mod downloaded to give more power to my Werewolf. The idea of using his inner wolf to perform fantastic feats were from the LEGEND OF CAIN - The Machinima Werewolf Series. **

**So! Long discussion over, see you all next time.**


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